de Norpois had “thought it was Monsieur Legrand,” because of what she called his “agelity” and in spite of their having not a single point in common. “Well,” inquired my mother, “and how do you explain that nobody else can make a jelly as well as you⁠—when you choose?” “I really couldn’t say how that becomes about,” replied Françoise, who had established no very clear line of demarcation between the verb “to come,” in certain of its meanings at least, and the verb “to become.” She was speaking the truth, if not the whole truth, being scarcely more capable⁠—or desirous⁠—of revealing the mystery which ensured the superiority of her jellies or her creams than a leader of fashion the secrets of her toilet or a great singer those of her song. Their explanations tell us little; it was the same with the recipes furnished by our cook. “They do it in too much of a hurry,” she went on, alluding to the great restaurants, “and then it’s not all done together. You want the beef to become like a sponge, then it will drink up all the juice to the last drop. Still, there was one of those Cafés where I thought they did know a little bit about cooking.