Jarvis had a crisp, clear style of composition all his own.  The letter was not a long one, but it brought the writer vividly before his reader: 

“DEAR SALLY: 

“One of the apple-wood fires you like so well is blazing on the hearth.  Across the table, in the lamplight, sits Alec absorbed in a column of experiences in strawberry culture contributed by experts from all parts of the country.  You may not readily believe me, but in a quite upright position on the end of the couch, where the firelight illumines the page, Max is deep in a concise and practical treatise on the same subject.  Bob stands on the hearth rug, drying out, after a run home from the Ferry cottage through a brisk shower.  So you have us.  Is it a satisfactory picture?

“According to Alec you have been told all our plans for the season, and Ferry said to-day that he meant soon to write you precisely what is happening in your garden.  If he does you will have a masterpiece of a description, for he’s a writer of distinction.  He’s everything else that’s worth while as well, by the way—­the finest ever.  I never liked a man so well with so good reason.  Other men say the same sort of thing of him, but I fancy I am getting to know and appreciate him better then most.

“Before I forget it—­Joanna wishes me to state that she has spoken for a kitchen garden which shall contain parsley, summer-savoury, lettuces, radishes, and mint.  With Bob’s help she has even concocted a small hot-bed in which she will begin operations at once.  These subjects having been disposed of, you may forgive me for becoming slightly personal.

“Do you know that you haven’t answered my last letter?  I had one sheet from you in January, one in early March, and a post-card a week ago.  The post-card was very attractive, but it hardly took the place of a letter.  Was it intended to do so?

“But you are coming home soon, and you must expect to answer these questions for me then.  I assure you there are long arrears for you to make up with us all, in one way and another.  Bob is counting the days till your return.  Max has reached the limit of his patience.  Alec declares this thing must never happen again.  Joanna—­but it would be a breach of confidence to reveal Joanna’s feelings.  “There’s na luck aboot the hoose,” she is confident, with its mistress away.

“As for me—­do you care to know how I feel about your coming home?  But I would rather tell you that than write it.  You have kept me at arm’s length all winter.  Won’t you just bend your rigid little elbow a trifle at the joint when you shake hands with me the first of May?

“As ever I am

“Yours, JARVIS.”

It remained for Max to put the crowning touch to Sally’s rather complicated thoughts about going home, with the following characteristic communication: