"Look here, miss; here is your programme! Why, deary me! you must have had a lot of dancing. It is quite full." Betty looked at the programme with dazed eyes; then at the camellia. It had lost some of its petals, and these had not fallen on the toilet-cover. Where were they? What was the meaning of this? "Martha, bring me my hot water, and leave me alone." Betty was sorely perplexed. There were evidences that her dress had been worn. The pearl necklace was in the case, but not as she had left it--outside. She bathed her head in cold water. She racked her brain. She could not recall the smallest particular of the ball. She perused the programme. A light colour came into her cheek as she recognised the initials "C. F.," those of Captain Charles Fontanel, of whom of late she had seen a good deal. Other characters expressed nothing to her mind. "How very strange!" she said; "and I was lying on the bed in the dress I had on yesterday evening. I cannot explain it." Twenty minutes later, Betty went downstairs and entered the breakfast-room. Lady Lacy was there. She went up to her aunt and kissed her. "I am so sorry that I overslept myself," she said. "I was like one of the Seven Sleepers." "My dear, I should not have minded if you had not come down till midday. After a first ball you must be tired." "I meant--last night." "How, last night?" "I mean when I went to dress." "Oh, you were punctual enough. When I was ready you were already in the hall." The bewilderment of the girl grew apace. "I am sure," said her aunt, "you enjoyed yourself. But you gave the lion's share of the dances to Captain Fontanel. If this had been at Exeter, it would have caused talk; but here you are known only to a few; however, Lady Belgrove observed it." "I hope you are not very tired, auntie darling," said Betty, to change slightly the theme that perplexed her. "Nothing to speak of. I like to go to a ball; it recalls my old dancing days. But I thought you looked white and fagged all the evening. Perhaps it was excitement." As soon as breakfast was concluded, Betty escaped to her room. A fear was oppressing her. The only explanation of the mystery was that she had been to the dance in her sleep. She was a somnambulist. What had she said and done when unconscious? What a dreadful thing it would have been had she woke up in the middle of a dance! She must have dressed herself, gone to Lady Belgrove's, danced all night, returned, taken off her dress, put on her afternoon tea-gown, lain down and concluded her sleep--all in one long tract of unconsciousness. "By the way," said her aunt next day, "I have taken tickets for _Carmen_, at Her Majesty's. You would like to go?" "Oh, delighted, aunt. I know some of the music--of course, the Toreador song; but I have never heard the whole opera. It will be delightful." "And you are not too tired to go?" "No--ten thousand times, no--I shall love to see it." "What dress will you go in?"