She had always heard him called old; but he was a strong, erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not be avoided.

Felicita did not seek to avoid them.

She looked as steadily at him as he did at her.

There were traces of tears on her face, but there was no tremor or weakness about her.

They exchanged a few civil words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances.
"Tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken a seat near to her.
"Briefly," he repeated.