But on a sudden, in this uncomfortable state of things, the applause of the clapping contingent rattled out with the regularity of platoon firing.

People turned toward the stage.

Was it Nana at last?
This Nana made one wait with a vengeance.
It was a deputation of mortals whom Ganymede and Iris had introduced, respectable middle-class persons, deceived husbands, all of them, and they came before the master of the gods to proffer a complaint against Venus, who was assuredly inflaming their good ladies with an excess of ardor.

The chorus, in quaint, dolorous tones, broken by silences full of pantomimic admissions, caused great amusement.

A neat phrase went the round of the house: "The cuckolds' chorus, the cuckolds' chorus," and it "caught on," for there was an encore.