And I'm leaving tonight--for good." Garry sat up.
"You mean ?" demanded Kenny coldly.
"I mean," flung out Brian, "that I'm tired of it all.

I'm sick to death of painting sunsets." Garry's startled glance sought and found a mediocre sunset on an easel.
Brian went in for sunsets.

He said so himself with an inexplicable air of weariness and disgust.

He knew how to make them.
Kenny's glance too had found the sunset.

It stood beside a landscape, brilliant and unforgettable, of his own.