Quentin's grin only seemed to broaden at that, as he looked at Penelope's face, and then down to the hand he was holding again. Back to her face. Back to her hand.
Sure.
"It is a ring," he agreed, drawling out the words much more than was necessary, and there was clear amusement in his voice - also disbelief in the grand-mother's claim. Well, maybe even that was true, but he had an inkling there was more to it than that.
"It's a rather specific sort of ring, you know," he pointed out to her. "On a rather specific sort of finger. Why Miss Clearwater, people are simply going to talk," he said, letting his voice go to that of a gossipy woman, in fake falsetto.