"Not so much a restriction in finances," Jean went on, "but restrictions imposed by the condition of the tenants. You see, the plan is this: thousands of people, right here in Manhattan, die yearly for lack of air and sunlight. Literally thousands of incipient cases of tuberculosis, and those in the earlier stages, die because of their living conditions, die needlessly. There is all the sunlight and air in the universe right here. It is only a question of being able to get it."
Jean paused, but Gregory Allen said nothing. He did not know how many people died in New York for need of air and sun, but now that he thought of it, supposed quite a number. Jean seemed very positive about it, and he saw no reason to comment.
Jean felt like shaking him, and, turning slightly away, made aimless lines on the desk blotter as she continued.
"There is also a lot of vacant land, doing no good to anybody, just where we want it. The problem is to get it, but, of course, you would not be concerned with that, but only to put up a building for the sole use of families in which there is any one either with, or threatened with, tuberculosis. I don't want a contractor who thinks that anything is good enough for the poor. And I don't want an architect who doesn't grasp the spirit of it, either."
He might just as well get the situation straight to begin with.
Gregory Allen wondered whether Jean always enunciated her purposes so emphatically, rather as if she were firing small shot at a target. She was decidedly like a Roman tower, part of a fortification. Amplifying his own figure, he scarcely noticed Jean's pause for his comment, nor did he notice the frown as she continued.
"And in addition to this, the building must be as beautiful as it can be made, beautiful even to details that may seem finicky, in tone and line and tint. These people, besides being stricken in body, have been cramped in soul, too, most of them, until they don't know there is any beauty in the world. Or, worse, they don't believe that it is for them. As one woman told me, not long ago: 'there ain't no free beauty nowhere.' Well, we are going to give it to them, all we can possibly give. It will take a lot of time and there's not a cent in it. It will lead to nothing else. It is just a gift, the most beautiful gift you can make, within the bounds of our funds."
"What are the bounds?"
"I don't know yet."
A smile darted from Gregory Allen's eyes to his lips, and settled there. During his student days at the Beaux Arts, a grisette had told Gregory that his smile flitted like "un petit oiseau" over his face and then flew out of his mouth. Jean did not call it "a little bird" but she liked it.