At first sight of this Mr.Arthur Russell, she had said to herself instantly, in words as definite as if she spoke them aloud, though they seemed more like words spoken to her by some unknown person within her: "There! That's exactly the kind of looking man I'd like to marry!" In the eyes of the restless and the longing, Providence often appears to be worse than inscrutable: an unreliable Omnipotence given to haphazard whimsies in dealing with its own creatures, choosing at random some among them to be rent with tragic deprivations and others to be petted with blessing upon blessing.
In Alice's eyes, Mildred had been blessed enough; something ought to be left over, by this time, for another girl.

The final touch to the heaping perfection of Christmas-in-everything for Mildred was that this Mr.Arthur Russell, good-looking, kind-looking, graceful, the perfect fiance, should be also "VERY well off." Of course! These rich always married one another.

And while the Mildreds danced with their Arthur Russells the best an outsider could do for herself was to sit with Frank Dowling--the one last course left her that was better than dancing with him.
"Well, what DO you want to talk about ?" he inquired.
"Nothing," she said.

"Suppose we just sit, Frank." But a moment later she remembered something, and, with a sudden animation, began to prattle.

She pointed to the musicians down the corridor.