`But what will become of you, Mr Fogg?'

`As for me, madam,' replied the gentleman, coldly, `I have need of nothing.'

`But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?'

`As I am in the habit of doing.'

`At least,' said Aouda, `want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends--'

`I have no friends, madam.'

`Your relatives--'

`I have no longer any relatives.'

`I pity you, then, Mr Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls may be borne with patience.

`They say so, madam.'

`Mr Fogg,' said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, `do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?'

Mr Fogg, at this, rose in turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, `I love you!' he said, simply. `Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!'

`Ah!' cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart.

Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr Fogg still held Aouda's hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith.

Mr Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone Parish, that evening.

Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, `Never too late.'

It was five minutes past eight.

`Will it be for tomorrow, Monday?'

`For tomorrow, Monday,' said Fogg, turning to Aouda.

`Yes; for tomorrow, Monday,' she replied.

Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.