Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maiden
honey, four pounds to the gallon--with its due complement of white of
eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes of
working, bottling, and cellaring--tasted remarkably strong; but it did
not taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, the stranger
in cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttoned
his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and made
his presence felt in various ways.

'Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, and to
Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by this time;
but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorry for it.'

'You don't live in Casterbridge?' said the shepherd.

'Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.'

'Going to set up in trade, perhaps?'

'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. 'It is easy to see that the
gentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything.'

The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would
accept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it by
answering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, and I
must work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I must
begin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet, blow or
snow, famine or sword, my day's work to-morrow must be done.'

'Poor man! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be worse off than we?' replied