He said nothing. He shut himself in his room. That evening Aouda came to him and asked him to marry her, and Fogg, who had lost everything else, said yes. Passepartout was sent to the church to arrange the wedding for the next day. He came running back like a madman. "Sir! Sir! It cannot be tomorrow — tomorrow is Monday!" "Sunday," said Fogg. "No! Today is Saturday, the twenty-first of December!" Fogg understood in a moment. Travelling always eastward, he had gained a whole day without noticing it: one hour for every fifteen degrees of the earth he crossed. His notebook was wrong by a day, and he still had time. Without a word he ran out of the house. At eight forty-five that evening the door of the Reform Club opened and Phileas Fogg walked in. "Here I am, gentlemen," he said calmly. He had won twenty thousand pounds, he had spent nineteen thousand of them on the road, and he had gained a wife — which, for such a man, was the greater fortune.