"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 the shepherd's wife.

"'Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. 'Tis the nature
of my trade more than my poverty. But really and truly, I must up
and off, or I sha'n't get a lodging in the town."

However, the speaker did not move, and directly added,

"There's time for one more draught of friendship before I go, and
I'd perform it at once if the mug were not dry."