"What about a sense of futurity?" I asked.
"Did you ever meet the man could spot a Derby winner?" asked Culling, infected by Rawnsley's scepticism.
"Futurity in respect of yourself," I defined. "What's called 'premonition.'"
Rawnsley demolished me with patient weightiness.
"You come down to breakfast with a headache...."
"Owin' to the unwisdom of mixin' your drinks," Culling interposed.
"...Everything's black. In the course of the day you hear a friend's dead. 'Ah!' you say, 'I knew something was going to happen.' What about all those other mornings...."
"Terribly plentiful!" said Culling.
"...When everything's black and nothing happens? It's pure coincidence."
I defined my meaning yet more narrowly.