After an unfortunate incident with a rock cake at a village fête, I found myself in need of an emergency trip to the local dentist while deep in rural England. The small town I was staying in happened to have exactly two such practitioners, and what a remarkable difference between them: one man had a clean and orderly office that it was a pleasure to visit, and greeted me with a broad smile full of dazzling white teeth; while the other lived in a state of total disarray, and though his scowl rarely revealed much of his mouth I was able to discern that it was full of a number of ill-administered fillings.
“So naturally,” I later explained to Holmes, “I intend to book an appointment with the former dentist.”
“Good heavens, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed. “How could you make such a terrible blunder!”
Why did Holmes think I was making the wrong choice?