"The indictment has certainly many counts," thought I.
Imprimis—A half-implied, but fully comprehended promise to marry a young lady, with whom, I confess, I only intend to journey this life—as far as Baden.
Secondly, a charge of swindling—for such the imputation goes to—at the Salon.
Thirdly, another unaccountable delay in joining the Callonbys, with whom I am every hour in the risque of being "compromis;" and lastly, a duel in perspective with some confounded Frenchman, who is at this very moment practising at a pistol gallery.
Such were the heads of my reflections, and such the agreeable impressions my visit to Paris was destined to open with; how they were to be followed up I reserve for another chapter.