He had dreamed--it was the most insubstantial of dreams--that she had given him the right to believe that she looked to him to transmute her discontent.

And yet here she was throwing herself back into Roderick's arms at his lightest overture, and playing with his own half fearful, half shameful hopes! Rowland declared to himself that his position was essentially detestable, and that all the philosophy he could bring to bear upon it would make it neither honorable nor comfortable.

He would go away and make an end of it.

He did not go away; he simply took a long walk, stayed away from the inn all day, and on his return found Miss Garland sitting out in the moonlight with Roderick.
Rowland, communing with himself during the restless ramble in question, had determined that he would at least cease to observe, to heed, or to care for what Miss Garland and Roderick might do or might not do together.

Nevertheless, some three days afterward, the opportunity presenting itself, he deliberately broached the subject with Roderick.
He knew this was inconsistent and faint-hearted; it was indulgence to the fingers that itched to handle forbidden fruit.