The French have an expression, "La page tourne" – the page turns. They use it a lot and just the slightest inflexion or incline of the head changes its meaning.

It was first used to me by an old Viscomtesse as we sat in her drawing room in a chateau whose finest days were long behind it…as were hers.

Around us, as dehumidifiers battled the rising damp and scented candles merely overlaid the pungent odour, the huge cleaner spaces on the silk hung walls bore testament of paintings sold to keep the place alive.

In desperation this once and still beautiful old woman, her gentle husband and his sister, had turned to chambres d’hotes, hosting couples and families on their way south, always south.

A lone woman, I was a rare exception as was my companion, César’s precursor, Portia. The Viscomtesse was not cut out for the job of service and she unwittingly intimidated the poor English couple as we sat all together for a quite appalling dinner cooked by the master and his sister.

To me she took a great liking, mainly because of the equally aristocratic Afghan and the way my eyes lit up on spying her hunting photographs and recognising one of the Irish hunts.

Taking my hand, she led me to the drawing room and a decanter of Armagnac and two solid glasses brought by her husband who seemed delighted that his wife had found temporary amusement.

I’ve written in detail in my book of all that passed between us as she gave me no quarter in her exquisite French and, rightly, refused to speak English. She tsked when I used a learned non-U word and deftly explained why never to use it.

But on finding out where I was going to live, she sniffed and said: Well, down there they won’t notice the difference.

The next morning, she presented me with ‘calling cards’ to the only worthwhile people in my area – "very few" – gave me a Hermes ashtray as a keepsake and made me promise to write to her and come, as a guest, to the first hunt of the season.

Then she took my hands, kissed me on both cheeks and said fiercely: "La page tourne. Don’t look back. It’s time."

What she meant was that there are times when the fates align and meet at a point where life changes irrevocably and one must move forward, always forward.

I thought of her words often this week – she was the first to use the expression but not the last in these sometimes-turbulent years. I now use it myself occasionally to both French and others.

I thought of it as I watched the deliberately orchestrated walk-out in the Government benches as the leader of the SNP at Westminster, Ian Blackford, stood to speak; sitting down again as his opening remarks were drowned in the rude departure.

Oh, we Parliament watchers have seen such contempt often, in the ‘go back home’ shouts and the hoots and jeers directed at the Scottish MPs when they rise.

We’ve seen the blatant back to the studio cut-aways in arrogant knowledge that Scottish words held no relevance for this English Parliament or its public.

But this time, this time of national crisis, something clicked that all had changed. La Page tourne.

Within minutes tweets flooded out, disgusted at what had been witnessed. Not Scottish tweets but tweets from the normally disinterested who had finally seen what happens time after time.

The words came again as a bullish Johnson dismissed any claims that consent on his Bill had to be given by the Welsh and Scottish Parliaments.

No role in this Bill he snapped back….it’s up to the Westminster Parliament.

Throughout it all the SNP MPs have retained a dignity and risen above the schoolboy taunts echoing all around them. I defy even the staunchest Unionist to deny they have not been severely provoked and, yes, frequently insulted.

Brexit and its subsequent madness have unleashed, I would suggest, this barely veiled resentment of the Scots and a willingness, finally, to see them cast aside in its pursuit.

A poll this week suggested that 75 per cent of Tory leave voters believed Brexit was worth letting Scotland go. Well, we’ve seen what they’ve done to their DUP pals.

With every taunt, every realisation that this precious Union is mere mouth music played on a suspect fiddle, support for independence grows.

There is nothing for you there. Bit by bit what little devolution you were granted and ran with will be whittled away as will the rights of

workers and the very quality of life if this Tory deal is ever passed.

Always Scotland will come off the worst of the worse. To many in Westminster you are merely a tedious region biting at their ankles.

The SNP is merely the vehicle to drive you to that independence. Once there it is your choice of party that will take its place to pronounce on your nation – a nation welcomed by the might and care of the EU.

The page has turned. As the Viscomtesse said: Don’t look back. It’s time.