There had been no deputation at Warsaw Station to meet Miss Mangles. London had not recognized her. Berlin had shaken its official head when she proposed to visit its plenipotentiaries, and hers was the ignoble position of the prophet--not without honor in his own country--who cannot get a hearing in foreign parts. “This is even worse than I anticipated,” said Miss Mangles, watching the hotel porters in a conflict with Miss Netty Cahere's large trunks. “What is worse, Jooly?” “Poland!” replied Miss Mangles, in a voice full of foreboding, and yet with a ring of determination in it, as if to say that she had reformed worse countries than Poland in her day. “I allow,” said Mr. Mangles, slowly, “that at this hour in the morning it appears to be a one-horse country. You want your breakfast, Jooly?” “Breakfast will not put two horses to it, Joseph,” replied Miss Mangles, looking not at her brother, but at the imposing hotel concierge with a bland severity indicative of an intention of keeping him strictly in his place. Miss Netty quietly relieved her aunt of the small impedimenta of travel, with a gentle deference which was better than words. Miss Cahere seemed always to know how to say or do the right thing, or, more difficult still, to keep the right silence. Either this, or the fact that Miss Mangles was conscious of having convinced her hearers that she was as expert in the lighter swordplay of debate as in the rolling platform period, somewhat alleviated the lady's humor, and she turned towards the historic staircase, which had run with the blood of Jew and Pole, with a distinct air of condescension. “Tell me,” said Mr. Joseph Mangles to the concierge, in a voice of deep depression which only added to the incongruity of his French, “what languages you speak.” “Russian, French, Polish, German, English--” “That'll do to go on with,” interrupted Mangles, in his own tongue. “We'll get along in English. My name is Mangles.” Whereupon the porter bowed low, as to one for whom first-floor rooms and a salon had been bespoken, and waved his hand towards the stairs, where stood a couple of waiters. Of the party, Miss Cahere alone appeared cool and composed and neat. She might, to judge from her bright eyes and delicate complexion, have slept all night in a comfortable bed. Her hat and her hair had the appearance of having been arranged at leisure by a maid. Miss Netty had on the surface a little manner of self-depreciating flurry which sometimes seemed to conceal a deep and abiding calm. She had little worldly theories, too, which she often enunciated in her confidential manner; and one of these was that one should always, in all places and at all times, be neat and tidy, for no one knows whom one may meet. And, be it noted in passing, there have been many successful human careers based upon this simple rule.