He frowned. “Time? How much time could that possibly require?”
George chose that moment to lean in and sniff Mr. Pringle’s hand. The man yanked it back “Keep that beast away from me,” he snapped.
“He’s not a beast,” Phoebe said before she could stop herself. “He’s a good dog.”
Braxton’s mouth twitched.
George sniffed at Mr. Pringle’s coat next, then, with alarming swiftness, darted his nose into the man’s pocket and emerged with a folded piece of paper.
“George!” Josie yelped.
The sheepdog bolted, the paper clamped between his teeth.
“My schedule!” Mr. Pringle cried.
Chaos erupted. Josie chased George around a desk. Margaret ran in the opposite direction. Augusta shouted orders nobody followed. And the crooked Christmas tree wobbled dangerously when George ran past.
Phoebe sank lower in her chair.
Braxton folded his arms and watched the spectacle for a beat, lips pressed together, eyes bright with barely contained amusement.
Mr. Pringle, on the other hand, clutched his pocket dramatically. “That animal is a menace! I demand someone do something!”
Braxton whistled once. George, mid-gallop, skidded, turned, and trotted straight to him, dropping the paper at his feet.
“Good boy,” Braxton murmured. He picked up the slobber covered paper and offered it to Mr. Pringle. “Here you are, sir.”
Mr. Pringle snatched it back and examined it. “Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. I shall have to replace this.”
Phoebe suspected the man didn’t need to have his schedule written down, and only carried it for show.
“Perhaps,” she said, forcing her politest tone. “We should continue this another day, Mr. Pringle. I have work to do for the sisters, and I’m sure you’re a busy man.”
He seemed offended. “I rearranged my schedule to be here.”
“And we’re terribly grateful,” Augusta called. “Aren’t we, Phoebe?”
Phoebe gave them a thin smile. “Very.”
Mr. Pringle drew himself up. “Very well. We shall speak again soon. I will confer with the sisters about the timeline. My mother doesn’t care for delays.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Phoebe murmured.
He marched to the door, paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Do try not to let that dog near me again.”
George growled softly. Braxton laid a calming hand on George’s back. “We’ll do our best,” he said.
The door closed behind Mr. Pringle with a sharp click. Silence followed.
After a moment, Augusta sighed with satisfaction. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
Josie clasped her hands. “So refined.”
“And so decisive.” Margaret fanned herself with a folder. “Don’t you think so, Miss Hale?”
Phoebe stared at them. “Decisive is certainly a word.”
Augusta beamed. “You’ll be very comfortable as Mrs. Horace Bartholomew Pringle, dear.”
