"Now that we are all together," she said, "it is a good opportunity for talking over our plans. There are a great many things to be considered, as you know. Phyllis, you had better not stand."
Phyllis cast her long, supple frame into the lounge which was regarded as her special property, and Fanny sat down on a chair, wiping her eyes with her black-bordered pocket-handkerchief. Gertrude put her hands behind her and leaned her head against the wall.
Phyllis's wide, grey eyes, with their half-wistful, half-humorous expression, glanced slowly from one to the other.
"Now that we are all grouped," she said, "there is nothing left but for Lucy to focus us."
It was a very small joke indeed, but they all laughed, even Fanny. No one had laughed for a fortnight, and at this reassertion of youth and health their spirits rose with unexpected rapidity.
"Now, Gertrude, unfold your plans," said Lucy, in her clear tones and with her air of calm resolve.
Gertrude played nervously with a copy of the British Journal of Photography which she held, and began to speak with hesitation, almost with apology, as one who deprecates any undue assumption of authority.
"You know that Mr. Grimshaw, our father's lawyer, was here last night," she said; "and that he and I had a long talk together about business. (He was sorry you were too ill to come down, Fanny.) He told me all about our affairs. We are quite, quite poor. When everything is settled, when the furniture is sold, he thinks there will be about £500 among us, perhaps more, perhaps less."
Fanny's thin, feminine tones broke in on her sister's words—
"There is my £50 a-year that my mama left me; I am sure you are all welcome to that."