Bassanio sits at a fine dining table in a room just off the main--he has not seen this table here before, but the place appears to be run by such a capricious (to say nothing of sorcerous) master that he can really say nothing against the strange appearance of a solid oak table too large to fit through the door and too unwieldy to come through the window. He takes dinner alone, of late, more because he cannot find his company than because he does not want it. Nonetheless, he still carries about a fan for Portia and one for Antonio.
The table is set for four, and he would not mind seeing a few of the places filled.
It is a dismal thing, being lonely. He can't think how Antonio stood it.