Shortly afterwards, in The Red Lion, Quentin, Tim and Fenella found an empty table, most of the politicos, Lobby correspondents and other riff-raff, being clustered around the bar, watching the BBC 10 o'clock News and that was where Sir Wilfred found them when he rushed in, flustered with excitement; he signalled to Maggie, the Irish bar-maid, who brought over a large whisky for him and three pints of Guinness for the others: "what's that under your oxter?" asked Quentin, but before the Cabinet Secretary could answer, his phone chirruped, and almost immediately, as if it weree a mating-call, it was joined by most of the other phones in the room; which was whn a loud whinge erupted from a tall, skinny man with a radiole spine: "she can't!" he cried, "she shan't!" he cried, "she mustn't!" and Sir Wilfred chuckled, taking the sheaf of papers from under his arm and handing them to the others: "not like old Moggie to utter so many solecisms in one breath," and he waited for the response from his companions: "she has!" gasped Fenella, as Tim and Quentin scanned the press release from The Dame: she was not now resigning as Prime Minister because she had reached an agreement for an Interim Government with the majority of her Cabinet colleagues and supporters among Conservative MPs, together with the Labour, Liberal, Green, Scottish National, Plaid Cymru and Change UK parties, which would organise a People's Vote on the choice between leaving the European Union without a Deal, or Remaining in the EU on present terms; on the TV screen, Winnie-the-Pooh who had expected to become PM on Wednesday was huffing and puffing about "body blows," and "just not the sort of thing one human being does to another, no, not half, it's a bit below the belt," and he turned and walked away, with his shirt-tail hanging out as always, while on the other side of the room, the apoplectic Moggie was being given the Heimlich Manoeuvre by one of his acolytes.