"Your daughter is very beautiful," Thranduil said to Elrond as he drew the half-elf over to a quieter corner of the Hall of Fire, an empty goblet dangling from the ends of his long fingers. It was a few centuries into the Third Age of the Sun and Thranduil was visiting Imladris for the first time since Arwen's birth. "It is no wonder they associate her with Lúthien. Congratulations. You must be very proud."
"Well... aye, I am..." the half-elf said, smiling slightly and inclining his head.
Thranduil raised the goblet to his lips, tilted it, realised it was empty, and lowered it again. "I envy you your daughter," he continued. "Perhaps you will think this narrow-minded of me, but I must admit I have only ever seen evidence to support my belief that the more beautiful a maiden, indeed any individual, the more successful. They are advantaged because they are more likely to be wed, judged more intelligent, esteemed higher, and receive more attention."
Elrond tilted his head and nodded slowly, still smiling. "I agree with you... somewhat."
Thranduil leaned a little closer to him. "My own daughter, as you know, can hardly be called even plain, though she is as you said, very bright and pleasant of nature. Now the attention paid my daughter by the public - even the public of Mirkwood - is not even comparable to the vast positive attention paid Arwen." Thranduil sighed, the goblet swinging like a badly attached pendulum from the tips of his fingers. "She is unfortunate. I fear she will never wed."
"Mmm..."
"Do you understand my meaning?"
"Aye, you are saying the more beautiful an individual, the more successful he or she will be; you are saying that they are naturally advantaged and more fortunate. I mean no offence towards your daughter, of course."
Thranduil shook his head dismissively. "None taken. So do you agree?"
Coincidentally, right at that moment, Arwen herself happened to pass by them. She forced a smile and curtsied at them before passing on, but not before casting a wary look behind her at the slavering Glorfindel, Gildor, Galdor, Lindir, Erestor, and a curious trio of Lothlórien archers, who were following close behind and clutching white-knuckled at the torn skirt of her ripped and much molested looking dress. Thranduil's eyes widened.
Elrond smiled wanly and as the troop passed on and out of the hall, looked back at Thranduil. "You were saying...?"
Thranduil shook his head and waved a beckoning hand at the nearest wine attendant. "Never mind."
