This was the sort of thing one didn't talk about, not out loud, and not with complete strangers, and it was the sort of thing that one typically pretended did not happen, unless you could no longer pretend that, and then it was spoken only in hushed whispers, and because of this he was taken aback when she did, but he didn't look away. She was trusting him with this, and maybe there was no real way that he could harm her with it, but something said to hold onto it. That being steadfast, perhaps required just this. And also an acknowledgment of it.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, uncertain if he should say anything else about it.
The laugh was loud enough to startle him, and to cause him to glance around the room to see if anyone was watching, or had noticed, even though there was no one in the room that might report back to his parents or his headmaster or probably anyone that he knew or cared about at all, and despite himself, his lips turned up into an impossible smile. "This is not a wonderful one," he confirmed. "Maybe one of the poets, or the histories, but not this." There were books that he loved, but they were not books given to him by his father, nothing that would be held up as essential for a proper gentleman's profession, and it would have been a shame that he would not typically have admitted to, but she had shared with him and it inspired him to share likewise something that might have been a secret.
He shook his head, not certain that he had met Mrs Foley, or if he had, it had not been to really know her. The only dances he had attended involved dance cards and proper chaperones, and trying very hard to not step on the toes of girls who would absolutely look down upon you for doing so. And somewhere amongst those girls likely was a future wife, if you were lucky a very pretty one, or one that had a very wealthy father, or possibly, you shared some commonality with - music, or a love of the theatre - and it all held so much weight, and what she described seemed anything but that. Spontaneous, maybe, and perhaps no one would notice too much if you stepped on their toes. And there was a hunger in his eyes as he considered the possibility - none - of him going to such a thing. "I don't think they would let me out in the evening," he told her, trying not to sound too disappointed. "And dances are only those that have been approved."
Oliver glanced towards the window, out into the darkness for a moment, and then back to her, earnest. "If I could though, I think I would. I think I'd like nothing more. It sounds nothing like our dances, and I think I wouldn't worry so much about who was there or whether I danced well -- I don't, particularly. Unless your dances are different?"